


Sanctuary

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Librarian!Sherlock, M/M, john's ptsd, tumblr otp prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5792860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to the library for some peace and quiet and comes into contact with a very interesting librarian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt: Person A has PTSD from a past war, and the construction near their house forces them out everyday. They go to the library seeking silence, and continue to do so for months that follow. Person B is the librarian working in that library.

The noise. The constant noise. John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise coming from the construction next door, the sound of the jackhammers and miter saws ringing in his ears...bringing back memories...

John felt a pang in his shoulder where he'd been shot in the war, and knew it was time to go somewhere quiet. He pulled on his coat, picked up his cane, and walked out the front door, putting in his ear buds and turning them up loud as he walked past the construction site.

A short bus ride later, John found himself at the library. He'd ended up spending nearly everyday there he wasn't at work to escape the ruckus. He limped inside, made his way over to the medical section, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

Finally, the clock was chiming eight o' clock, and it was closing time. John gathered up the several books and made his way to the front desk.

The librarian was new, someone John hadn't seen before. He was tall and slender, striking cheekbones, dark curly hair and light grey eyes. His purple shirt was tight-fitted across his pronounced bone structure, its buttons barely staying done up. He swiped John's books through the scanner in silence. Then, he asked, almost casually, "Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

John was taken slightly aback. "Afghanistan," he answered after a moment. "How did you know?"

"I'm observant," was the librarian's short reply.

"I'm not exactly wearing a sign though, am I?" John sort of laughed.

There was a moment's pause, then the librarian's eyes flickered over to him briefly out of the corners of his eyes. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home. I also know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic; quite correctly, I'm afraid."

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, it says military; also, your face is tanned, so you've been abroad, but not above the wrist, so not sunbathing. These books and the ones on your record are mostly about medical practice, so that implies either doctor or medical student, but you're a bit old to be a student, so doctor it is. Your limp's really bad when you walk but just now, before I mentioned it, you were standing up straight, not leaning on your cane like you are now, like you'd forgotten about it. So it's at least partially psychosomatic, which means the origins of the wound were traumatic. Wounded in action, then, enough to be discharged. Wounded, suntanned...so, Afghanistan, or Iraq."

John stood there, with his mouth slightly open. "And...how'd you know I have a therapist?"

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist." There was a slight pull at the corner of the librarian's cupid's bow lips, like he was trying not to smile.

"Who...are you?" John asked incredulously.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And...shouldn't a genius like you be...I dunno, out there curing cancer instead of checking out books?"

Sherlock lowered his voice. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not a librarian. I'm undercover, investigating a crime. I'm a consulting detective."

"What's that, like a PI?"

"Not quite. I'm the only one in my field. I invented the job. I must say, I would've expected an angry outburst from you by now."

"An angry outburst?" John repeated.

"Yes. Usually when I spell out people's lives for them, they don't usually ask for more information."

"What do they usually do?"

"Tell me to piss off." Sherlock smiled. John had to laugh. "Tell me, Doctor..."

"Watson. But please, call me John."

"Tell me, John, if you don't mind, why have you spent all day cooped up in a library?" Sherlock queried.

John shifted awkwardly. "Well, to be honest, to get away from the noise. I'm rooming next door to the world's noisiest construction site."

"And the noise bothers you because of your post traumatic stress disorder, so you seek solace in the quietest place possible-a library."

"Seriously, how do you do that?"

"It's my job. And I think I've a more agreeable solution to your problem."

"And that is?"

"To move into a flat."

John laughed. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"Myself."

John paused. "Wait, really?"

"How do you feel about the violin?"

" _What?_ "

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"I..."

"Excellent! I know of a little place in central London. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is an old client of mine; she can give us a good deal on the rent. Together, we should be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven. I've got to lock up now, I'll see you then." Sherlock handed John his books and strode over to the hat rack behind the desk, where a navy blue coat and a scarf hung. He flung them on his person with a flourish.

Then he and John made their way outside, and Sherlock hailed a taxi. "See you tomorrow, Doctor Watson. Oh, and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock winked at him, then climbed inside the cab and rode away.

John watched the cab disappear, still slightly bemused by the events of his and the consulting detective's conversation. Then, slowly, he grinned to himself. _221B Baker Street...I'll be there, Sherlock Holmes._


End file.
